Page 59 of Highlander’s Burning Touch

“Aye, uncle, but that’s the point. The hill,” Fingal said. By now, he had brought his temper under control, just about. But beneath the calm of his voice, a low simmering rage began to build.

“The hill?” said Rory, bemused. He looked impatiently to his horse, snarling beneath him. Fingal could tell he was in a hurry to be off. They all were. Just not up that hill in the middle of a snowstorm.

“Aye, uncle, it’s impassable,” he said, his eyes glinting out in the darkness. For a second, they connected with Dughall’s, watching him closely through the wild night.

“Och, muck and nonsense!” snapped Rory. Now he was tugging at the reins of his horse, in a frenzy to be off. He looked around for his men to follow him, but for the time being, they stayed put.

Flashing his eyes to them, Rory glared angrily ahead. “I ken every inch of this place, an’ I’m telling ye that the lodge is by far the nearer!”

“Nae in the dark,” said Fingal, feeling the groundswell of opinion behind him. Silently, they nodded their heads. “An’ in a storm, never mind wi’ snow on the ground… we cannae pass through it, at least nae for now…”

Fingal trailed off, allowing some time for his words to seep in. Slowly, they did.

“H’m,” he said, unsurely. But then he looked around at them again. “Maybe, but we should try…” his uncle said. And then, with a decisive crack of the whip, he was off, hurtling towards the hill at speed.

The three of them looked at each other before doing all that they could do, which was to follow as best they could.

Fingal sped towards his uncle, leaving the others trailing in the snow behind. Putting some clear space between themselves and the servants, Rory waited until they were alone before he addressed his nephew.

“Fingal, come closer, lad,” said his uncle, in a strange voice that immediately got Fingal’s attention.

“Yes, uncle,” said Fingal, compliantly falling into step beside the laird. The pair of them pulled away, leaving the others trailing behind. When they had gotten far enough, Rory finally spoke.

“The thing is, there’s a reason I wanted to get to the lodge tonight,” said Rory, when they were finally out of earshot.

“I did wonder,” said Fingal. He looked to his uncle; his usually genial face was contorted in thought. Fingal wondered what the matter was. “Ye havenae been quite yerself, for sure.”

Rory turned sharply to look at him. “Ye can tell?” he said, dismayed. “I was trying to keep it to myself, but aye, there’s something bothering me, and it has to do with that wee lassie there…”

Rory flicked his eyes back to the castle, almost invisible on the hill in the black of night.

“Aye, uncle,” said Fingal, thoughtfully. “What is the matter wi’ the lass? Dinnae ye like her?”

He watched his uncle’s face closely as they trotted through the snow. It was not easy, as, in the intermittent moonlight, they could not see much. Reluctantly, Rory slowed his horse to a trot while they spoke.

“Aye, I like her lots. She’s a bonny wee lassie,” said his uncle slowly. “Young an’ beautiful… the perfect young bride.”

“So?” asked Fingal, not detecting his point. “If she’s so young an’ beautiful, why do ye nae want to spend any time wi’ her? Half the castle has noticed…” he said, “Even the wee lassie herself is starting to suspect something…”

Then Fingal looked closely. He had to pull in much nearer to his uncle’s face in order to see it in the half-light. There was a pause as Rory considered his words.

“That’s just it,” he said, a glint catching his eye from the moon above them. In the clear sky, the wind raced, making both of them shiver. “She’s too young. Just a lassie. I am more like her father than a husband…She is just wee lass, nae properly a woman yet…if ye ken my meaning…”

He turned to look at Fingal again, this time with desperation. Fingal was not totally sure he did understand.

“I have racked my brains thinking about what to do wi’ her. After all, I did agree to a marriage between the two clans….,” his eyebrows tied in knots as Fingal waited watchfully.

“So, ye dinnae want to marry her, then?” said Fingal, his mind racing. Inside, his brain was turning. He had long suspected something was up, and his uncle’s absences from the castle had not gone unnoted. But he hadn’t expected this.

“Well, the twenty-year-old me wants to marry her, a lot,” said Rory, with something approaching a smile. For a moment, the old twinkle came into his eyes, but then, in an arctic blast of wind, it was gone.

The laird smoothed his face over and switched back to troubled. “But the fifty-year-old me kens that it just isnae right,” he said, looking straight at him. “The fact is, she’s just too young for me. I am more like her father than a husband…”

They rode tentatively forwards, this time very much slowed in the snow, which was growing thicker all the time. As he had predicted, getting up the hill to the lodge was becoming harder and harder.

And from the labored breathing of the horses beneath them, it was obvious they would soon have to stop. The snow was just too deep, and every step was an ordeal.

Although he couldn’t see it any longer, Fingal thought of the horses he had seen up outside the lodge. Was it Niven and Deva, he wondered? Had they really managed to get there before them?